"The MisAdventures of The Cool"

This is the tale of MyCool Young History. A young drug-dealer out of Chicago's westside who get's caught in the game and the life of the streets. MyCool's lifestyle in the drug dealing world eventually leads to him getting set up by his boss, a sinister man known as The Game. While on the rise with his dreams and ambitions, MyCool makes the biggest mistake by getting intimately involved with The Games wife named "The Streets". In a gripping tale readers will get to follow the adventures of MyCool as he ends up dying, is denied by the gates of Heaven and comes back to earth in zombie form as an entity known as "The Cool" in order to seek revenge on those who initially killed him...Now if that isn't considered "cool" then I don't know what is...

(Based on the conceptual album called "The Cool" by Hip-Hop musician Lupe Fiasco

Submitted: July 24, 2012

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Submitted: July 24, 2012

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“The MisAdventure’s of The Cool”

By: Kevin Anglade

I dedicate this short story to my favorite Hip-Hop musician Lupe Fiasco. The work that follows was an attempt and hopefully an imaginative thrill for readers as I tried to reinvent “The Cool”.
Thanks Lupe for “The Cool” “The Streets” and “The Game” characters. Thanks for “The Cool” concept, and “The Cool” album. Thanks for articulating your ideas to the mass population of fans around the
world on the true misconceptions and delusions of black youth. (what they think in life is considered cool) Thanks for “The Game” as a metaphor to Hip-Hop. Thanks for Hip-Hop’s first true epic poem
that crosses back and forth in between your first two albums. Thanks for believing in what you say in your music. Thanks for standing up for it and being true to yourself as an artist. Thanks for
what’s soon to come. And now without further ado, I present to all “The MisAdventures of The Cool”

FNF UP

He Say, She Say

It was a beautiful sunny Saturday afternoon for football at Thornton High School. The day was the 19th of

September, 1981. Fall had unofficially started as summer continued to creep about on its last legs. The High School’s

football team was facing their rivals from across town. In this particular football game was JaySin History. A young

black kid who happened to be a sixteen year old quarterback jock on the school’s team. Although his team was one

touchdown away from a spectacular comeback, JaySin couldn’t help having his girlfriend run through his mind.

Tanya Baker, a young black girl of a slim build who was about fifteen years of age was pregnant with JaySin

History’s child. Tanya had swelled up like a sea walrus during her term. She was nine months into her pregnancy and

was due at any time. These circumstances brought sweat to JaySin’s face. What could he have been thinking? He was

only a kid himself and now he had to deal with the fact that he could become a father at any moment. Why had Tanya

come to the game? Shouldn’t she have stayed home as he had asked?

“JaySin, C’mon son! Get your head in the game. One more completion to our receivers and we win!” yelled the

football coach who fidgeted on the sidelines.

JaySin shook any thoughts or nervous tension he had been having aside. In that moment it was all about winning.

By the game’s end, it turned out that JaySin had thrown a ninety yard catch to one of his receiver’s to win the game.

He couldn’t have been any happier. As he went into the stands to search for his pregnant girlfriend he saw many

people gathered around her as she held a small baby boy within the palm of her hands. The boy was wrapped in what

seemed to be a heap of blue blankets.

“JaySin,” she said as he approached. “Congratulations on the birth of your new baby boy.”

As he peered into the bundle of blankets where a little boy lied half-asleep, JaySin noticed that the boy had the

same set of eyes, nose and facial features that he himself had. It was all too much for JaySin to take. He wasn’t ready

to be a father and couldn’t bear the challenges and future responsibility that came along with it. From that moment

on, he never made the conscious effort to get within five feet of the child. The day of the boy’s birth had been one of

the few and one of the last. And so, poor Tanya had been left to raise the child on her own. She never forgave JaySin

for abandoning her, and from the moment he left, she never wanted anything more to do with him. The boy had been

named MyCool Young History. A very charming boy MyCool had grown up to be on the west side of Chicago. His

mother raised him in a section eight project housing building between Madison Street and Albany avenue. MyCool

was extremely smart for his age. While growing up, the teachers usually raved about the talents and intellect the boy

possessed. For the first ten years of his schooling he always handed his homework in first before the other students.

Although he was a loner, MyCool had been a happy boy. This however, wouldn’t last as with each sunrise he

died a little each day. MyCool couldn’t remember or recall anything about his father; how old he was, his name,

where he lived. He simply knew that for some reason his father never was a part of his life. Each day he grew

glum as his desire to connect with his father grew. Previously, he had been a very studious boy. But his secret

passion deep within his heart was to know his father. And because he thought of this constantly his school grades

declined. His mother Tanya Baker, now twenty-nine, had gotten word that MyCool was fighting in class at Thornton

High School. This was the school that she and MyCool’s father themselves had previously attended. And what was

worse was that teacher’s would tell her that the once star pupil might fail his classes. Tanya knew that

she had to alert the boy’s father at once. She believed that MyCool’s problems were the effects of his absentee father.

Although she had never told MyCool, his Dad happened to live in an old beat up house which resembled a summer

shack over on Milwaukee avenue. Tanya figured the least he could do was try to make it work for the boy’s sake.

And so, Tanya herself went to the house of her former boyfriend and knocked on the green oak front door. She had

remembered going into it often many years before. As the man named JaySin came out, she quickly poured her

thoughts and feelings out to him:

“I want you to be a father to your son, he’s your little boy. He’s starving for his father. His

teachers are starting to use red marker on his work, they know he’s much smarter. They tell me he’s fighting in class,

last week I got a letter that said he might not pass. He asked me if you’re sick of him, cause you ain’t never picked

him up. He’s got no positive male role models that would play football with him or build railroad models. Do you

know why? Cause you ain’t been around ever since he could hold bottles! Was he supposed to get introduced to that?

He don’t deserved to get used to that! Now I’m not asking you for money or to come back to me. It just breaks my

heart when I do my best to provide and he says ‘mommy that ain’t your job’. I try to make him understand that I’m

his number one fan. You know the world is out to get him. Why don’t you give him a chance!?”

Every day she went to the boy’s father and told him this. The boy’s father had simply looked at her as if some

mutant slug spoke a language he couldn’t understand. MyCool however had in secrete followed his mother on one of

those days that she had decided to speak to his father. And so, one day he went over to that little house at the end of

the block on Milwaukee avenue and as he approached the house for the first time, he knocked upon the green oak

front oak door. As the man named JaySin History came out, he quickly poured his thoughts and deepest feelings to

him:

“I want you to be a father, I’m your little boy. But for some reason you don’t even bother, and although I know

you don’t care. For you, I’m a starver. My teachers are starting to use red marker on my work, they know I’m much

smarter. And now I’m fighting in class, last week I got a letter that said I might not pass. I asked if you’re sick of me.

Cause you ain’t never picked me up. I’ve got no positive male role models to play football with or build railroad

models. You know why? Cause you ain’t been around since I was old enough to hold bottles. Was I supposed to get

introduced to that? Nahh, I don’t deserve to get used to that. Now I’m not asking you for money or to come back to

me. It just breaks my heart when momma tries to provide and I tell her ‘mommy that ain’t your job.’ I mean...she

tries to make me understand that she’s my number one fan. I think the world is out to get me...why don’t you give me

a chance?”

But MyCool was never given that chance. And from that day forward his father was dead to him. His mother

Tanya had done all that she could. She raised him ever since he was a baby. To MyCool, he no longer had a father

and as time would tell, the only thing he would ever get caught up in was the rules of The Game and the life of The

Streets...

Sunshine

Four years had now passed in between MyCool’s attempt to reconnect with his father. Now eighteen, he relied

on no one but himself. He had now caused nothing but frustration and stress for his mother. Although he was now a

senior in High School, he had gotten word from the principal that he wouldn’t graduate because of his grades.

MyCool however didn’t care. He had been reduced to yet ‘another black kid in the ghetto trying to get by.’ He went

to class only when his friends just so happened to be there. After lunch, he was always seen roaming the hall with

other students that one day envisioned of living the street dreamed gangsta life. Nothing but 40’s, blunts, beamers,

and hoes circulated their thoughts. Their once promising futures had been left behind like the dirty clothes in hour

cycles at laundry mats. As they walked down one of the school’s hallways, one of the kids to MyCool’s left named

Richard pointed at a flyer.

“Ayo, look over there my nigga. What does that shit say?” said Rich.

Everyone within the group knew that MyCool was an exceptional reader so it was only right that he read the flyer:

Thornton High School’s annual dance Be sure to come and wild out as some of the best R&B/Hip-Hop is sure to get you up and grooving! $ 5 dollars for admission with School I.D. Dance will
be from 6-9pm. This Friday night!

“Ayo, whoever made that flyer definitely ain’t one of us nah mean?” said the husky round faced kid called

MyCool was definitely on edge. Growing up on the west side of Chicago he had often said that Will was family. He

knew that his current problems had led to him talking to Will in a fashion that he normally wouldn’t have.

After a few minutes of driving around where they passed dozens of Food and Liquors, basketball courts, and state

parks, MyCool finally brought up the question he feared.

“So what’s the streets been saying recently?” he asked, as he tried to sound as casual as possible.

“It’s crazy,” said Will, as he tried to pry open his bag of Doritos.

“Well fat boy?” asked MyCool. His patience was now wearing thin.

“Word going around is that niggas out here got AK47’s, Mac-11’s, and semi-automatics. They tryin’ to hit you when

you least expect it,” said Will softly.

He was apparently hurt by the “Fat boy” remark.

“And?” asked MyCool urgently.

“That nigga called The Game has also been seeing you with his wife, the one with the green eyes. He’s seen you

flossin’ jewelry, diamonds, money, hoes, his girl and he’s just about tired of it.”

“The Streets is on my watch now. The Game’s days are up,” MyCool fired back as he turned into an alley.

“Word going around is that there will be a bounty for that chain hangin’ around your neck.”

“Let them try. I got the mac-11 strapped to my chest, I’mma hit a nigga from behind when I see em’ and they ain’t

gonna know what hit em’,” retorted MyCool.

“Damn, niggas really ain’t ready for you out here then,” said Will, as he now started on a bag of pringles.

“To hell they ain’t,” said MyCool.

The sun had set an hour prior and now the moon had taken its place within the night’s sky.

“I even got two stacks of paper in the glove compartment. I’d like to see 5-0 try to box me in,” he added

confidently.

“These niggas just hatin’ joe, ain’t nobody out there with a shotty doing robberies in stolen whips that may be out

here trying to wait on you,” assured Will.

MyCool continued to self-indulge within his thoughts. He was in a stolen black sedan, had just committed a robbery,

and was driving all over town searching for shady niggas who seemed like potential threats to his life.

“I just can’t let any of em’ get away, I’mma pop them niggas uuuughh!!” cried MyCool in a vexed tone of

anxiety.

“You got this joe. They don’t know about the chopper in the trunk. Your glocks in the box, the .9 milli all tucked.

The bulletproof glass, the .40 on the dash, and when you lift the steering wheel, your shit will pop all up.”

“Word right? Who really fuckin with me though? I got the .40 on the dash, the bulletproof glass, the chopper in

the trunk, the glocks in the box, and last but not least the .9 in my damn crotch.”

MyCool suddenly released a mild sigh of relief. He wasn’t out of the woods yet but he was fully protected. He

wanted someone to try and test him, he was ready to go. To relieve some tension Will had suggested that they hit up

a club. Niggas planned to party it up until they finally had the opportunity to put some heat to the chest of his haters.

Will decided to take MyCool to West End’s Bar & Grill. As music pumped bass from every corner within the club

many locals from all over town showed MyCool some love. MyCool, who had struck up conversation with two fine

shorty’s at the bar happened to look comfortable as he asked the bartender for three rounds of vodka and grey goose.

Will, who had also chatted with some honey’s approached MyCool and told him that it was a quarter passed two.

“Word? Aight let’s bounce. These niggas about to catch a few slugs,” said MyCool, as he quickly regained his

focus.

The night was growing older by the second and MyCool wasn’t going to let it go by completely without releasing a

few bullets from his toaster. Back in the car they went as they drove up and down amongst the foulest ghettoes

Chicago owned. There were no signs of The Game or his henchmen as they drove. But less than half an hour later at

about three a.m. they found themselves on the block of MyCool’s old project building on Madison street. There was

an eerie silence which made the back hairs on MyCool’s neck stand on end. But this was his hood. Although he

didn’t live there anymore he still had the place on lock.

“Yo pull over right quick, I gotta take a pee,” said Will.

“Yo, you serious right now? said MyCool in disbelief. Yo hurry your ass up man, shit!”

MyCool was completely frustrated now. Up and down they went looking to put an end to his paranoia, and yet they

couldn’t find a single nigga that was a threat out on his streets. As he faintly listened to the radio, he bopped his head

to Lupe Fiasco’s “The Cool” which was currently being played on 107.5 WGCI.

“Just remember my nigga if something does happen in the next few minutes there is a heaven for a G,” said Will,

as he closed the door of the black sedan.

Will then walked into a dark corner and began to take a whiz.

MyCool casually took out a blunt, struck it with a match and began to smoke his own supply. His left armed leaned

out against the driver’s window as he startled to self-ramble about his greatness.

“I’m a cool ass nigga man,” he said as he took a puff.

“Fuckin fly ass car, fly ass chain.” He took another puff.

“It’s fuckin three in the morning, niggas ain’t messing with me man.” He hit the joint once again.

“Shit, I run these damn streets and niggas out here lookin’ for me? Man I wish a nigga would,” he said as he took

one last drag of the blunt before tossing it out the window.

He took a look outside at Will who seemed to be zipping up his jeans. Looking out of the passenger window, he

rolled it down and suddenly yelled:

“Ayo hurry your ass up nigga!”

In just that instant MyCool heard footsteps as someone approached the black sedan’s passenger side. A black man

ducked his head and leaned in through the window. MyCool immediately noticed Rich, his former partner and friend

that he and Will had grown up with. As Rich poked his face within the surface of the window, his face cracked a

slight grin of satisfaction.

“What’s up now nigga?” he asked calmly.

MyCool tried to reach for his .9 as quick as he could but Rich had already drawn upon his .45 and let out six shots

that ripped into the night... MyCool Young History was dead before he had even got the chance to slump within the

driver’s seat. Will had now returned to the car to check out Rich’s work.

“Ain’t too cool now is you nigga?” asked Rich as the two of them walked away.

How unfortunate to how the night had ended. MyCool was trying to put an end to his rivals. But his supposed friends

had put an end to him. So long went MyCool’s relentless pursuit of trying to be cool...

Put You on Game

Despite many people that were seen or heard to come out of Chicago, no one was more heinous and foul as The

Game. This man who had complete imperialistic control of every Chicago urban ghetto happened to be the highest

personification of evil. The devil himself. Many often referred to him as the belly of the beast. He was a bald aging

black man with dice for eyes. His physical appearance looked as if he had been on cocaine for more than sixty years.

Many working for him often feared their lives and regretted ever going into work for him.

Once you started working for The Game, it was a lifetime commitment. There was no such thing as quitting today or

retiring tomorrow. Once you sold your soul, you were his for life. The Game also had blunts for

fingernails and hollowtips for teeth. The day after MyCool’s death he was standing behind a hospital. He had heard

that MyCool died after being riddled by the bullets of his own henchmen. The Game decided to take a trip to the

hospital to confirm it for himself. After waiting hours upon hours against the night’s darkness, his best wishes had

been confirmed. He finally saw the body of MyCool being taken to a funeral home for a supposed burial. The Game

then began to walk deeper into the alley’s darkness. It was only then he had stopped because he heard what sounded

like crying coming from an old dumpster. When The Game pried open the dumpster, he found an infant girl staring at

him as it kicked and flailed it’s legs. He took a few moments to observe what he had seen.

The baby itself hadn’t seemed normal. It was several pounds underweight and lacked the nourishment that an infant

needed.

“I probably took your father’s life huh?” asked The Game, as he pulled the baby from the inner clutches of trash.

“Just hope he never comes back. I bet he’s with your mother and the hustler’s high in my traps!”

Stunningly the infant ceased crying as if it somehow understood everything that the man before it was saying.

“Maybe one day you’ll grow up and be a stripper or a prostitute and gold-digger. But will you even get that far in

the malicious streets that I’ve created?” he asked as he now returned the baby within the dumpster. His smile now

turned into a frightening scowl as he held the lid of the dumpster with one hand.

“If you die tell them that you played my game, I hope your bullet holes become mouths that say my name cause

I’m the...”

And with one last hit of his blunt, The Game flicked it into the dumpster and closed it as the baby girl resumed

crying.

All Game could do was laugh a sinister cold laugh which bared his yellowed teeth as he departed into the night with

thoughts of hustlers and honey’s to trap.

Too Uncool (2x2)

MyCool was now away from the earth’s clutches. The place where he currently stood seemed to be the outskirts

of heaven’s gates. As he looked around, he saw people behind him chatting excitedly about getting into paradise.

Some people joked and laughed, while others were bustling through congested crowds towards elevators that went up

to where he currently stood and down below to where he could not see. MyCool couldn’t wait to get into heaven. All

of the gangbangers and drug-dealers he came across wanted to be accepted by none other than God himself. The

more that he daydreamed of what possibly lied ahead, the more he noticed that the line he was on was moving. After

quite some time MyCool had finally made his way to the front. Heavens gates stood an astounding fifteen feet tall

with shiny silver coat and pearls that covered its railing.

“Can I help you?” said an old man with a long white beard, oval glasses and angel wings.

“I was wondering if God could let me in?” asked MyCool, in an unsure tone.

“What’s your name kid?” asked the man, as he pulled out a long pamphlet of names scribbled in a scrawl.

“MyCool Young History.”

“Oh, let’s see here, MyCool, MyCool, MyCool...”

The man continued to rummage his stubby fingers through pages of what seemed like a million signatures. He then

looked up and shook his head.

“I’m sorry kid you’re not on the list.”

MyCool was starting to lose his patience with the man before him.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I’m Saint Peter,” replied the long white bearded man.

“Look, there’s gotta be something you could do,” said MyCool.

The man called Saint Peter now took out another list in which he searched all the names upon it. After several

moments later he abruptly blurted out:

“Ahah!”

“Well it’s about damn time,” said MyCool.

“Listen I won’t mention anything to anyone just sure next time”----

-----“You’re on the list of the underworld,” said Saint Peter.

“What?!” screamed MyCool.

“You heard me kid!” said Saint Peter, now apparently flustered.

“Ain’t this some shit? I was a superstar back on earth,” said MyCool.

“First of all, you’re near heaven’s gates, so watch your mouth. Secondly, I can’t find your name on this list! So

you’re definitely not a superstar here,” said St. Peter in a tone of self-defense.

He then leaned in across the table to get as close to MyCool as possible.

“Hey, did you improve on the design...did you do something new? Cause your name ain’t on the guest-list who

brung you?”

MyCool was now lost for words. He couldn’t accept or come to terms with his current rejection.

“Move aside, I’ve got other people coming in,” said St. Peter.

Two sexy women had just walked past MyCool where they gave their name to the old man.

“You girls are good to go,” he said as he checked their names off of his so-called “good” list.

“Listen kid.” he continued. “Don’t say I didn’t do you any favors. Take the elevator at the far end of the

walk through down to the underworld. From there just be careful of who or what you see. Don’t even bother going to

hell. The Devil doesn’t even want to claim you. Before you even got here he said that he wouldn’t put up with your

antics.”

“Ok, thanks I guess,” said MyCool reluctantly.

“Make sure you get off at the stop of the extinct. From there, you can catch a cab that will bring you back to earth.

You’re getting a second chance kid, consider yourself lucky. Go back and whatever you did, make sure you undo.”

said St. Peter.

MyCool then got off the line and made his way back through the walkthrough towards the elevators. As he walked

past what seemed like billions of people, he noticed that everyone from males, females and little children were

dressed in all white. It was only then that MyCool realized that he himself varied from all the others as he was

dressed in all black. People who had been afraid to come into close contact with him moved away and kept a far

distance as he walked by. MyCool finally reached an elevator that headed down. As he got into it and left the top

floor of heaven behind him it was then he suddenly realized that he was too uncool.

“Go back and whatever you did, you undo,” he kept repeating.

“Damn, what the hell could that possibly mean?”

MyCool would’ve lit a blunt to calm his nerves but the dead couldn’t smoke. Besides, any swishers he had were

currently back on earth so his attempt would have been futile. The elevator continued to spiral down at a rapid pace.

As it approached the stop of the extinct, he had to put on his shades as a blinding light of a red pigment began to flash

before him outside the elevator’s window. MyCool couldn’t believe what he saw as dinosaurs were seen walking

across a vast waste land of comets and asteroids. A Terranasaurus and Triceritops were now seen fighting for water

by the edges of a far lake in the distance. Further down the elevator went until it finally came to a halt at the stop of

the extinct. Apparently MyCool had gone through six levels of extinctions and this was the final one. MyCool got out

and had now entered what appeared to be a graveyard of America’s first Native Americans. Many of the headstones

which lied miles ahead were encrypted with different tribes and clans that the Indians had been a part of. MyCool

walked and walked until he seen a black limo that appeared to be stationed within the earth’s core. Standing

outside of it was a chauffeur who seemed as if he had been waiting for him.

“Where does this limo take you?” asked MyCool, as he approached the man.

“Why wherever on earth you want it to take you,” replied the chauffeur.

“I’d like to go somewhere in specific,” said MyCool, in his too familiar firm tone.

“Simply get in and I’ll take you there,” said the man.

MyCool, with no other words got in as the chauffer began to drive the limo straight up the earth’s crust which would

place him upon the soil in which the dead were buried.

“Anywhere in particular asked the chauffer?”

“Yes, take me to the west side of Chicago. I’ve got some unfinished business to attend to there.”

MyCool couldn’t help but repeat what St. Peter had told him upon heaven’s gates.

‘Go back and whatever you did, you undo, go back and whatever you did, you undo’.

“I got it,” he said. “I’ve got to undo the circumstances I was dealt and make myself cool.”

The limo continued to roll through the crust as it approached the land of the living. MyCool was now ready for his

second shot on earth. But for some reason, he had misinterpreted what St. Peter had said. Yes, he was now given a

second chance at life. But would he ever truly understand what it meant to live the right way?

The Cool

It was a seasonably warm summer’s day on July 18th, 2008 in the west side of Chicago. The sun was stifling hot

and the citizens of Chi-town were burning up as they tried to find ways to keep cool. It had been seven months since

the shots put MyCool in the box for being one of the flashiest hustlers known to man. Usually when someone

eventually met their demise, life continues while the dead rest eternally in their resting place. But on this

day in particular something very unnatural was happening at the cemetery of St. Dominic’s Church. The neighbors of

the graveyard had recently complained of hearing noises the past few nights which greatly disturbed them. Many

citizens swore to hearing caskets or one casket in particular being rocked back and forth as if a corpse was trying

to set himself free. Immediately such talks as this ceased as people who lived near St. Dominics feared to be thought

as insane. But this day in particular proved that the citizens were actually right. Former street hustler MyCool History

was buried in St. Dominics and for some reason the noise had been coming from his grave-sight. His headstone

which was currently the home of a black crow perched on top of it read:

Here lies: MyCool Young History

Born: 9/19/81 Died: 12/18/07

The Coolest Hustla – Heaven For a Gangsta

The crow squawked, as more crows appeared surrounding the headstone. It then became apparent that something

was about to happen. Deep within the casket, six feet under lied MyCool. He looked the same as he did when he had

died. MyCool was buried in the same suit that his Grandfather was married in. His bling shined more than ever as he

still wore the two earrings and chain given to him by The Streets. He still had it because his killers didn’t find it. The

casket’s owner awoke with a stirring start. He smelled the hennessy his friends had poured into his casket to celebrate

his memory. He thought his best bet was to sip the hennessy but as he drank he couldn’t sip it fast enough and the

liquor just kept filling the casket up. In the pool of liquor that flowed he saw a floating letter from his sister. Her

second grade handwriting could be made out stating “Dear MyCool, I miss ya.” His suit jacket pocket held his baby

daughter’s picture and right next to that one of his man’s stuck a swisher. As he continued to lie down, he had just

now realized that he was entirely soaked in hennessy and his constant observation had just pointed to the broken latch

on his casket. For a mere few seconds and with his natural instincts he figured there was nothing left to do but to free

himself. And so he gave the casket a hard kick with his left leg and saw it open before his eyes. The moment he did

this dirt came in chunks and now began to pile up within the coffin. Determined to free himself, he used his tarnished

gold chain to loosen up the earth as he dug his way to the surface. Although it was working, he decided to speed up

the process to get out as quickly as possible. With no hesitation he began to use his mouth as shovel and spat with

each mouthful. Once his mouth got tired of dirt spitting, he simply swallowed it. Many would have called him a

reverse archaeologist but ironically enough his buried treasure was sunshine. He then worked his way up through a

hole that he had made. As he caught his first glimpse of sunlight that he had seen in sometime, the light reflected off

his chain and almost made the sun blind. He now grabbed onto some grass and climbed, he pulled himself up out of

his own grave and looked at the time. The figure who re-entered the soils of the earth was now “The Cool”. However,

his watch had stopped working six months after the shots. The Cool’s right hand had completely rotted and was now

all bones. No longer an ordinary human being he had lost all his righteousness. The Cool took in the amazement of

what his right hand had become; he then wrung the henny up out his socks after they had been drenched within his

casket. After spotting a violet he picked up the flower and brushed some dirt right off his shoulders. The Cool had no

purpose to stay amongst St. Dominic’s cemetery and with no reason to stay he decided to head home. Two blocks

away from St. Dominic’s was a train station where The Cool eventually made his way onto its platform. As he got on

the train he looked at all the passengers and begged for some change.

“Damn, that nigga stank!!” is what they complained.

As The Cool walked through the trains compartment mustering up as much change as he possibly could, passengers

covered their nose with both hands. It was obvious that he smelled rotten to the core. The Cool eventually

caught his reflection in a mirror while aboard the train. He wasn’t shook or ashamed at what he became. It was

obvious that the only thing on his brain was brains. The train sped on for about twenty minutes until it stopped at

Madison street. As The Cool got off, he now had the privilege of returning to his block. It was where he grew up as a

kid, where he had sold his first dime bag, and where he had experienced his eventual death. However, seven months

hadn’t changed anything. For the most part everything looked the same. Even the crooked cops that hung around

when he was the biggest hustler known to man were still there.

As he walked down the end of his block to where his former project building stood, he happened to look at the same

street curb where he was shot. He had died seven months ago in this area and now swore to never allow it to happen

again.

“Yo!” said someone from behind.

The Cool turned around with a start. Two young kids who looked no other than fifteen had now approached him. One

had on a fitted with matching jeans and sneakers. The other had no kind of drugs in his hand but seemed to be

accompanying the other boy who was holding.

“What is it?” asked The Cool in a grisly tone as he showed his now yellowish teeth.

“If you’re going to buy, hurry up. I’ve got another corner to get to,” said the kid holding weight.

“How odd?” thought The Cool as he gave the kids a look of uncertainty.

In his days he would supply the rocks to the youth and now these young joe’s were attempting to supply it to him. He

couldn’t believe how the tables had turned...

The kid who was holding had probably grown paranoid at The Cool’s indecision to buy his product and at his

stagnancy on the corner. What if this guy was an undercover cop?

The boy couldn’t take a chance as he had now pulled

out a gun. It was the same .45 that the hustlers had shot him with seven months prior. The boy unlocked the gun’s

safety and pointed it at the temple of The Cool.

“You scared ain’t ya?” said the kid as he smirked from behind the toaster.

“Hustla for death, no heaven for a gangsta,” said The Cool as he returned the smirk.

The kid rang out four shots before he and his friend pulled out. Once again The Cool was left lying on his back; hit

with bullets in the same place and from the same gun. The only difference from last time was that no blood was shed

as he lied upon the concrete. But like he had said before he once again fell to his demise “Hustla for death, no heaven

for a gangsta.” It was something that the kids who shot him had no yet understood, but when playing The Game it

was definitely inevitable. Time would eventually catch up to them. And as for The Cool himself? He’d be back. He

obviously made a choice to make himself cool and had no plans on being accepted into heaven’s gates guarded by

Saint Peter.

As long as he couldn’t get what he wanted, nothing would stop him from resurrecting. The feat within itself is what

made him...

cool…

“The Cool”, “The Streets”, and “The Game” characters, and songs “He Say,She Say”, “Sunshine”, “Gotta Eat”, “Streets on Fire”, “The Die”, “Put You On Game”, “Superstar” and “The Cool” (song) are the
concepts and property of the musician Wasalu M. Jaco better known as Lupe Fiasco and 1st/15th productions. I only take credit for creating subplot characters found throughout the work and my own
personal dramatized visions.

Personal Thank You’s

Shout out to my fellow Lupe Fiasco’s fans who supported this project from the start: Nayaab Khan, Nate “Nat” Smith, Andrew Anderson, Thomas “TG” Graham, Jeremy Beddoe (Feel better bro, I’m praying
for your recovery) Anthony Herron Jr. (aka F.L.O.W. his mixtape SOULFULL is out now on DatPiff!Real hip-hop!) Ahmed Abbas, Sakia Hagagi, and Omar Adam. (couldn’t forget you my nigga) Thanks for
being true fans of Lupe’s work, my original plan to follow up on it, and for the constant support to what this project eventually became. Shout out to my cousin Tracy Laroc, I didn’t forget you!
Shout out to my former High School Economics teacher Michael Rosenburg. (You’ve got to be one of the most considerate heartfelt white men I’ve ever known. Keep teaching and keep that sense of
humor, you're great at what you do) Shout out to Donte McClain, Omar Draggon, and everyone who has or will eventually invest their time in t